


The Certain Knot of Peace

by enigmaticblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2010-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madness descends when the whole world stops sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Certain Knot of Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hugglewolf](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hugglewolf).



> Title from the Sir Philip Sydney poem, "Sleep". Written for the 2010 apocalyptothon.

Cas?”

 

Dean’s voice broke the silence in the Impala, and Castiel sighed. “You should be sleeping, Dean.”

 

“Can’t.”

 

The one word response raised Castiel’s concern, which, mixed with his own fatigue and irritability, set his nerves on edge. He stiffened from his half-slump in the passenger seat, forcing an alertness he didn’t feel.

 

“You should try,” Castiel finally said, not looking behind him where Dean had stretched out in the backseat. He could just make out the shape of Dean’s body, slumped in the backseat. “Close your eyes and rest.”

 

“I told you, I can’t fucking sleep,” Dean snapped. “You know as well as I do that _no one_ has been sleeping over the last two weeks, so get off my fucking back.”

 

Castiel ruthlessly smothered his rising irritation. “You are not fit to face Lucifer tomorrow, Dean. Would you like me to—”

 

“No.” The word was quick, and full of the impotent rage that had been building for the last month. “No.” This time, Dean spoke more softly. “We both know what happened last time you tried.”

 

His hands clenched on his knees, feeling the scratchy-soft texture of his pants vividly, the warm flesh below. Castiel _felt_, and that was the problem. He remembered all too well what it had felt like to try to put Dean to sleep, like running up against a brick wall. Castiel could still feel the ache behind his eyes.

 

A warm hand clasped his shoulder, squeezing briefly and startling him out of his thoughts. “I’ll try to rest if you do the same.”

 

“I’ve told you that angels do not require sleep,” Castiel responded, striving to keep his voice even and emotionless. “I’ll keep watch.”

 

“Thought you said you weren’t going to perch on my shoulder,” Dean replied, his voice hoarse.

 

Castiel felt the absence of warmth as Dean withdrew to sprawl across the backseat again, and he spoke too quickly in response. “What else can I do, Dean? You were the one who insisted on this fool’s errand.”

 

His anger was pointless; it wouldn’t help them accomplish their goals, and Dean wasn’t the appropriate target. Even knowing all of that, Castiel had to force the apology out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

 

“Did you mean it?” Dean asked in a low voice.

 

Castiel leaned his forehead against the cool dashboard of the Impala, unaccountably comforted by the sensation. “No. Not all of it.”

 

“But you think this is a stupid mission,” Dean pressed.

 

Castiel huffed out an annoyed breath. “I don’t know. I had no idea what lack of sleep would do to humans.”

 

“Yeah, we’re all just a bunch of weak mud-monkeys, right?”

 

Castiel could hear the words in Uriel’s deep tones, both that of his vessel and of his true form. There was a reason Uriel had favored a certain kind of vessel—deep-voiced, imposing, in order to frighten those to whom he appeared—but Castiel had no such preference.

 

He’d sought a true believer and found one in Jimmy, and now Jimmy’s soul was gone, leaving behind only the weaknesses of the flesh. Weaknesses to which Castiel was rapidly falling prey.

 

“You are far stronger than you know,” he said finally, but Dean didn’t respond. Castiel sat up and glanced back, seeing Dean’s closed eyes and knowing that sleep deprivation had caught up to him again.

 

If the past was any indication, Dean would be unconscious for a short time, then would awaken abruptly and with no memory of having been unconscious, and no sense of being rested. Castiel straightened his spine, trying to remain vigilant. He wasn’t at his best right now, but neither was Dean, and angels, at least, didn’t need to sleep.

 

Even if he wasn’t much of an angel.

 

In spite of his attempts to stay alert, Castiel lost track of time, his mind a blank canvas, waiting for revelation, for knowledge. He waited for the voices of his brothers, his sisters, his father, and received silence in return. The silence made something inside him twist and ache; even Jimmy was gone now, and the loneliness was sometimes unbearable.

 

Castiel could not say what startled him, but he sat up too quickly, banging his knee into the dashboard and feeling the sharp pain shoot up his leg. The sensation startled him, but Castiel pushed it out of his mind to focus on Dean. He twisted, frowning when he saw the empty backseat.

 

A moment later, Castiel stood outside the car; he could still transport himself short distances without repercussion, and he was in too much of a hurry to bother with the door.

 

Not for the first time, Castiel wished he hadn’t been forced to hide Dean from angelic eyes, including his own. He would feel better if he could locate Dean with a thought, especially given their current circumstances.

 

“Dean!” he called anxiously. The sound seemed to be absorbed by the surrounding trees, parked as they were off of a two-lane highway, somewhere in Michigan. “Dean! Where are you?”

 

Castiel received no reply other than the faint sound of birdsong. A gust of wind dragged at his trench coat, sending it flapping around his legs, and Castiel felt its weight anew. “Dean!” he called again, hearing the worry in his own voice.

 

The snap of a branch caught his attention and he whirled, straining his ears for any other indication of Dean’s location. His stomach twisted with an unfamiliar emotion that Castiel knew to be fear. “Dean!”

 

There was another rustle, and Castiel headed into the thickest part of the woods lining the highway, breaking into a jog when he heard the crack of another branch. The ground was soft under the soles of his shoes, and he could smell damp earth, green things and dead leaves.

 

Dean stood in a small clearing, about twenty yards off the highway. The word felt as though it was ripped from his throat. “Dean!”

 

Dean whirled, and Castiel heard the cold, sharp click of a revolver being cocked. The Colt wavered in Dean’s shaking hands, fatigue and gravity pulling the barrel down. Castiel catalogued the signs of exhaustion—the dark circles under Dean’s eyes, the pale skin, and the deep lines around his eyes and mouth.

 

He did not look well, Castiel thought with renewed concern. Dean was in no shape to face Lucifer, not until he slept.

 

And yet Dean would not be able to sleep until they had ended whatever sick game Lucifer was playing.

 

Castiel let fear and concern wash through him in one unending wave, then put it aside; emotion did him no good at present. “Dean, it’s me, Castiel. Cas.”

 

“Where’s Sam?” Dean demanded, shaking the gun for emphasis. “Where is he?”

 

“Sam is with Bobby,” Castiel replied, pitching his voice low, and trying to sound reassuring. For a moment, he considered tacking on the traditional greeting of angels: “Do not be afraid,” but he didn’t think that Dean would see the humor. “We left him in Sioux Falls so that he would not face Lucifer in Detroit. Don’t you remember, Dean?”

 

The Colt wavered again, then steadied, and the cold light in Dean’s eyes hurt Castiel more than he could have imagined. He was not fool enough to think he could survive a wound from the Colt; Castiel’s only other option was to transport himself behind Dean and disarm him through surprise.

 

And yet he wanted Dean to recognize him of his own volition. Castiel did not want to watch Dean break, or to descend into madness as so many had already done.

 

“You haven’t slept in two weeks,” Castiel reminded him. “Please, Dean. Put the weapon down.”

 

This time, Dean lowered the Colt to his side and fell to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. “God, Cas. I’m so tired.”

 

Castiel moved quickly, mirroring Dean’s position, taking the weapon from his limp, unresisting hand. Castiel was—had been—an angel of the lord, a warrior and a soldier, and now he found that Dean needed a set of skills he did not possess.

 

Releasing the hammer slowly, Castiel tucked the Colt into his waistband the way he’d seen Dean and Sam both do so many times. Then, cautiously, he reached out to frame Dean’s face with his hands. “We must get to Detroit. I can take us there.”

 

Dean shook his head wearily. “I can’t leave the Impala.”

 

“We’ll hide it.” Castiel heard the desperation in his voice. “You aren’t fit to drive. I can get us there and then back here.”

 

Dean barked out a laugh, sounding so broken that Castiel wanted nothing more than to mend him. “The Colt won’t work on Lucifer, Cas, so what the hell are we doing? This is stupid.”

 

Castiel didn’t reply. All of their actions seemed futile. The remnants of his tattered grace no longer hummed with the songs of his brothers and sisters, and he hadn’t the strength to seek his father any longer. Not if he was to protect Dean as well.

 

Although he could not remember the moment, Castiel had made his choice; he’d chosen Dean, even over his father.

 

“We have to try,” he replied, but the words sounded hollow to his own ears. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

 

“Yeah.” Dean’s hands came up and looped around the back of Castiel’s neck, warm and oddly reassuring. Castiel leaned in until his cheek brushed Dean’s, until he felt the warm, moist breath on his ear. “Just—give me a moment.”

 

Castiel gripped Dean’s shoulders, feeling the solid weight of muscle and the warmth that bled through three layers of cloth. He couldn’t say why, but Castiel did not want to move; he wanted to remain just like this while the world burned around them.

 

But they didn’t have that choice.

 

~~~~~

 

Because Castiel had no need of sleep, it had taken nearly ten days for him to realize that something significant had happened, and even then, he hadn’t known _what_ until Dean had called. He’d only noted that there was more violence, more deaths, and that people were quicker to shove him out of the way or to begin screaming in the middle of the street.

 

“You need to come,” Dean had said, voice rough and gravelly. “No one is sleeping.”

 

By that point, Castiel had noticed a rising irritation and hopelessness within himself, a growing fear that his quest was fruitless. His own powers diminished by the day, and Castiel had found that he needed longer and longer periods of recovery after each flight. Soon, he would be unable to fly at all, and would be limited to human forms of transportation.

 

And if he was going to be stuck in one place, Castiel would much rather it be with Dean.

 

In the blink of an eye, Castiel went from the rainforests of Cambodia to Bobby’s cluttered living room, stumbling a bit, forcing Dean to steady him.

 

An unfamiliar heat had risen to his face when Dean grasped his shoulders, and Castiel felt Dean’s touch more clearly, and his reaction was stronger than it had ever been before. It was, he had thought, another mark of how far he’d fallen.

 

“Hey, you okay?” Dean had asked, and the real concern in his voice had caused Castiel’s reaction to grow.

 

“I’m fine. Tell me what has happened.”

 

The terrible truth was that they didn’t know anything, but Dean had been ready to blame Lucifer, and Castiel suspected that Bobby and Sam had been too exhausted to argue either with Dean’s conclusion, or his plans.

 

Rumor had it that Lucifer would be in Detroit, and Dean was going. When Castiel had announced his intention to accompany Dean, Sam had pulled him aside. “Humans need sleep, Cas,” Sam had warned him. “Dean’s not going to be fit company, and he’s probably not safe to drive.”

 

“I do not think I can transport the both of us to and from Detroit,” Castiel had responded. “We do not have a choice.”

 

What he hadn’t said was that Castiel wanted to conserve the final dregs of his strength, in case there was an emergency.

 

Sam had grimaced, and his expression indicated that Castiel would not enjoy this trip with Dean. “Just stay with him, and don’t let him drive if he’s too tired,” Sam had ordered, brow furrowed with worry, although Castiel wasn’t certain for whom Sam was most concerned.

 

And then Sam had filled Castiel in on the symptoms Dean—and the rest of the populace—could expect to experience: slowed reflexes, poor motor control, irritability, inability to control emotions, poor reactions to stress, hallucinations—and eventually death.

 

Castiel thought that Sam’s fear was split between the two of them, given that Castiel would be alone with Dean for the next few days, and Dean could be prickly at the best of times.

 

So, Castiel had sworn to take care of Dean, and they’d left Bobby and Sam behind to research possible solutions. Castiel had taken Sam’s place in the passenger seat next to Dean, and then Dean had begun driving with the windows down and the radio blaring.

 

Now, they were covering the Impala carefully with brush, preparing to face the devil. “You sure you can get us there and back?” Dean asked, moving more slowly than usual.

 

“I’m sure of nothing,” Castiel admitted, “but I do believe that you aren’t capable of driving right now.”

 

Dean sighed. “Yeah, same here.” He handed Castiel a shotgun, and when Castiel did not immediately take it, Dean said, “You’re already operating on a handicap, Cas. Gotta look badass if we don’t want to get jumped.”

 

Castiel took the weapon. “What handicap?”

 

“You look like a damn accountant.” Dean smirked. “You’re going to need some new clothes soon.”

 

He glanced down at what he was wearing, recognizing it as Jimmy Novak’s Sunday best that he’d worn to impress an angel. What clothed his vessel had not mattered to Castiel as long as Jimmy had still been around. Castiel had meant to leave the vessel exactly as it had been when Jimmy said yes.

 

That was no longer a consideration, however.

 

“I would not know where to begin,” Castiel admitted.

 

Dean shrugged. “We’ll worry about it later. It’s not too hard.”

 

“Are you ready?” Castiel asked, reaching out with two fingers extended.

 

Dean flinched but nodded, his expression resolute. “Go ahead.”

 

In the next breath, they stood on the streets of downtown Detroit, and Castiel took a deep breath, testing his strength.

 

“You okay?”

 

At Dean’s question, Castiel squared his shoulders, knowing that he’d done right to preserve his power. “Yes. I think so.”

 

“Gonna be able to get us out of here?”

 

Castiel nodded. “I believe so, yes.”

 

“Good, then let’s get this done.”

 

Broken glass crunched under Castiel’s shoes as they walked down the street, and the smell of burning rubber caused his eyes to sting and water. When Dean saw Castiel wiping away a tear, he frowned. “That’s new. You been bothered by smoke before?”

 

“No,” Castiel replied shortly, remembering the scent of burning meat in Mexico from street vendors, the heat and roar of a grassfire in Africa, the sweet smell of the holy oil that had circled him in Missouri. None of those fires had affected him this way—really, in any way.

 

“How long do you think?”

 

Castiel didn’t bother asking Dean to clarify what he meant; he suspected that his growing humanity weighed on both of them. “I don’t know. Not long, I think.”

 

“Let’s hope we get this apocalypse figured out before you lose all your mojo.” Dean pulled the semi-automatic from his waistband as a group of men approached. “Look sharp,” Dean added under his breath.

 

Castiel gripped the shotgun, his movements a mimicry of what he’d witnessed Dean do in the past. Dean stepped off the sidewalk, and Castiel followed a step behind Dean’s right shoulder. All of the men wielded some sort of weapon—baseball bats, chains, broken bottles, a rusty pipe, and Castiel’s muscles tensed as he went on high alert. It was going to be ten against two if the group decided to attack, but the men moved to walk down the middle of the street as he and Dean passed by.

 

“Riots have been out of control here,” Dean said in a low voice once the men’s footsteps had faded behind them. “In all the big cities, really.”

 

“Why?” Although Sam had listed the side-effects of long-term sleep deprivation, Castiel didn’t understand. He could not see the connection between lack of sleep, and burning buildings and violence. Castiel knew what explanation his brothers would give—that these were humans, and that was all the reason they needed.

 

It wasn’t enough of a reason for Castiel, who was swiftly losing his grace, who was falling and finding his own humanity.

 

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. People go without sleep long enough, they get crazy. The word spreads that something will help—sex, drugs, whatever—and they want that for themselves. And when they think the world is ending, or the worst is coming, they grab everything they can to save themselves.”

 

Shooting Castiel a grimly amused look, he added, “We’re people, you know? I guess you’ll get that pretty soon.”

 

“I imagine he will.”

 

The familiar voice sent a chill down Castiel’s spine. The last time he’d faced Zachariah, he’d been filled with the strength of righteousness, secure in the knowledge that he’d been saved from death. Castiel had been certain that he had been chosen by his father, and that he was doing the right thing. All of that had changed.

 

“What the fuck do you want?” Dean demanded, whirling to face the angel.

 

Zachariah smirked. “It’s good to see you, too, Dean.”

 

“Cas, you got your smiting sword handy?”

 

His sword still came readily to his hand, and Castiel held the shotgun the other. “I am ready, Dean.”

 

Zachariah laughed, long and hard. “Oh, Castiel. Or is it _Cas_, now? Has Dean told you where this road ends for you?”

 

Castiel didn’t dare look to Dean for answers, and Dean growled, “What do you want?”

 

“You haven’t told him, have you?” Zachariah crowed. “You haven’t told him that he falls!”

 

“Of course I fall,” Castiel snapped, irritation too much to hold back. “I’m falling now.”

 

Zachariah smirked. “But Dean hasn’t told you how it ends, how _you_ end. Has he? Did he tell you that you’re worthless, or that he gets you killed?”

 

Castiel didn’t know whether to believe Zachariah or not, but he did know that now was not the time to ask questions. “I’ve made my choice,” he said steadily, not daring to look at Dean. “What do you want?”

 

“It’s not actually about what I want,” Zachariah responded with a pleased smile. “I’m here about what _you_ want.”

 

Dean threw him a look, then turned his attention back to Zachariah. “What the fuck do you know about this?”

 

“You like this?” Zachariah asked, waving his arms, indicating the burning city. Castiel glanced at another group of people who appeared to be giving them a wide berth. “This is your doing, you know. We’re done screwing around, Dean. Michael and the other archangels agree: when you say yes, people start sleeping again and not a moment before.”

 

Dean sneered. “Fuck you.”

 

Zachariah disappeared, and Castiel let out a cry of surprise when Zachariah appeared again only inches from his face, and Zachariah’s hand clamped down on his throat. “Maybe you’d let the world burn,” Zachariah said pleasantly as he began to squeeze. “But would you sacrifice _Cas_?”

 

Zachariah turned his name into a curse, and Castiel gurgled helplessly. The pain in his throat had caused him to go momentarily limp, dropping both his sword and the shotgun. They were in the middle of the street, with nowhere—and no time—to draw the banishment sigil, and Castiel scrabbled at Zachariah’s hand ineffectually while Dean could do nothing but watch.

 

The noonday sun was bright and cheerful, so at odds with the howl of sirens and smell of smoke. Dean glared at Zachariah, hands flexing at his sides. Castiel wished there was a way to tell Dean not to give Zachariah what he wanted—if only because Zachariah wanted it. He would rather die, and he thought that Dean might understand that sentiment, if only Castiel could communicate it.

 

“So, what’s it going to be, Dean-o?” Zachariah asked pleasantly, and Castiel saw the muscle in Dean’s jaw twitch.

 

For a moment, Castiel thought that Dean would give in, would say yes, for _him_.

 

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Dean demanded. “Maybe you’re just taking credit for somebody else’s apocalypse.”

 

“You’ll never know unless you say yes,” Zachariah replied. “And if you don’t hurry up, you won’t have your precious Cas when you do.”

 

Castiel could feel the remnants of his grace fracturing, and as Zachariah tightened his grip, he could not contain it. His tattered grace slipped away from him, streaming out of his eyes and mouth and ears in great streams of light.

 

“Close your eyes, Cas!” Dean cried out. “Keep it in!”

 

“It won’t do any good.” Zachariah turned to look at Dean again, but Castiel’s vision began to fade, the bright light of his grace washing everything out. “He’s dying, Dean, a little bit every day.”

 

“That’s the funny thing,” Dean replied. “We’re all dying by inches.”

 

Castiel could hear the determination in Dean’s voice, and he knew that Dean wouldn’t give in so easily. Even with his grace fragmenting around him, the shriek of his true voice echoing in his nearly-human ears, Castiel dredged up the strength to grip Zachariah’s wrist. He felt his way up to Zachariah’s throat with one hand, then squeezed as hard as he could, feeling the bones grind together.

 

Castiel held on, even as Zachariah squeezed harder, impervious to pain the way Castiel no longer was. Castiel tried to keep his grace from splintering entirely under the strain, and he held on, even as his entire being seemed ready to fly apart. He held on—for Dean.

 

The words “Father, help me,” echoed over and over in his mind. He could think of nothing but holding on and praying—nothing until the hand disappeared from his throat, and he fell to his knees.

 

And then he felt Zachariah’s death, deep in the remaining shreds of his grace, and Castiel collapsed to the ground.

 

“Cas! Cas, just look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

 

Dean’s voice filtered in through the buzzing in his ears, and he forced his eyes open reluctantly in response to the fear he heard.

 

“Hey, there you are.” Dean cupped Castiel’s cheek, his thumb stroking his cheek. “We need to get out of here, Cas. We’re attracting too much attention.”

 

“Zachariah,” he croaked.

 

“Gone. Dead. We’ll see if it does any good, other than getting him out of our hair.” Dean helped him to sit up. “I hate to ask this of you, but you’ve got to get us back to the car. If you can. Can you?”

 

Castiel gathered himself, pulling on every bit of strength he had left, and then he was lying on soft, damp ground, the sweet smell of trampled grass and moldering things overtaking the scent of burning rubber and wood.

 

And then he promptly passed out.

 

~~~~~

 

Castiel floated along in a sea of gray. He was comfortable and pain-free; the blankness held no fear or doubt. When Dean’s voice filtered through the fog, Castiel gave serious consideration to ignoring him. He did not want to wake, but it seemed that he had no choice, as the awareness of his surroundings filtered in.

 

The pain hit him a moment later; everything ached, and he moaned.

 

“Hang on, Sam. Cas is waking up.” A gentle hand tapped his cheek. “Come on, Cas. Open your eyes.”

 

He squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly, shaking his head. Dean chuckled hoarsely somewhere above him. “Okay, I’ll let it go for now…Yeah, Sam. He’s okay.”

 

A wave of pain crashed over him, and Castiel rolled to his side, curling up to try and ease the agony. He felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him up so that his cheek ended up pillowed on a warm, firm surface. After a moment, he realized that Dean had moved him so that his head was resting on Dean’s thigh.

 

“No, I know it’s not fixed,” Dean snapped. “Maybe Zachariah was pulling our fucking legs, and maybe he was telling the truth. There’s no way to know for sure because he might be dead, but the archangels aren’t.”

 

Castiel wriggled to get a little more comfortable so that he was half-draped across Dean, the comforting weight of an arm across his shoulders encouraging him to open his eyes. “I have to go, Sam…We’ll take it slow…I promise. Don’t be such a baby. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

 

Castiel heard the snap of the phone flipping shut, and his eyes fluttered open. “Hey, there you are.”

 

“Dean.” Castiel pushed himself to a sitting position with Dean’s help. “Where are we?”

 

“You got us about ten feet from the car,” Dean replied. “And you’ve been out for about twelve hours. I didn’t want to start driving without someone to keep me awake.”

 

“We’re going back to Bobby’s?” Castiel asked, trying to focus on Dean, whose face was still fuzzy.

 

Dean shrugged. “Can’t do much else. Sam and Bobby figured out a way to get his place warded against whatever it is that’s causing this, so at least we’ll be able to catch some sleep there.”

 

Castiel pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. Dean scrambled up, grasping Castiel’s arm tightly to steady him. “Come on, Cas,” Dean said with a fond smile. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

“How did you stop Zachariah?” Castiel asked, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears.

 

Dean smiled grimly. “I killed him with your sword. It’s in the trunk for safe-keeping.”

 

Castiel found himself manhandled into the passenger seat, and Dean made certain he was settled as gently as he would have a child. “What did Zachariah mean?” The words tumbled from Castiel’s lips before he could think better of the question.

 

Dean didn’t respond. Instead, he kept his focus on the rough track they’d used to get off the main road. Castiel braced himself against the dash to reduce the jostling of his sore muscles and aching head.

 

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked once they were back on the highway.

 

“My head hurts,” Castiel replied. “But I’ll live. You didn’t answer my question.”

 

Dean sighed. “Remember the last time Zachariah tracked me down? And you pulled my ass out of the fire with your impeccable timing? He showed me the future. You fell, and you were—I don’t know—different. Hopeless, I guess, and I got you killed.”

 

Castiel frowned. “I don’t understand.”

 

“What’s not to understand?” Dean snorted. “I got you into this mess, Cas. I convinced you to rebel. It’s my fault.”

 

Castiel shrugged, not understanding the distress that caused Dean’s voice to waver. “I would follow you until the end.”

 

“That’s the problem,” Dean replied. “We’re all going to die, Cas, and you didn’t deserve any of this shit.”

 

Castiel glanced at Dean, who was still fuzzy around the edges. “Neither did you.”

 

Dean blinked, glancing out the driver’s window. “Yeah. Guess so. Tell you what, I’ll be glad to get some sleep. I don’t think I could go another week.”

 

“Sam said that people will die without sleep,” Castiel suggested tentatively.

 

Dean’s mouth flattened out into a straight line. “Yeah. We’ll just have to figure it out before it gets that bad.”

 

~~~~~

 

Dean remained lucid right until about halfway across Minnesota. Castiel knew the way, and he knew the signs to watch for, because Dean made him repeat the directions over and over again. “If I’m not okay enough to drive, you’re going to have to do it,” Dean said as soon as Castiel indicated that he was no longer seeing double.

 

“Dean, I don’t know how to drive.”

 

“You’ll figure it out.” Dean waved to the open road ahead of him. “And it doesn’t look like you’re going to have a lot of competition. Just—watch, okay? You’ll be fine.”

 

Castiel knew that it was a mark of Dean’s exhaustion that he was even admitting Castiel might have to drive the Impala. Under other circumstances, Dean wouldn’t so much as entertain the thought, let alone speak of it out loud. “I’ll do my best, Dean.”

 

“Yeah, I know you will,” Dean replied, with a warm smile. He touched one of the levers coming out of the steering column. “This is the gear shift. You’ll need to know how to put into park. I don’t have time to show you how to reverse, so we’ll just hope that you won’t need to know.”

 

Castiel nodded. “Understood.”

 

“Okay. You know the pedal on the right is the gas, right?” Dean continued, talking Castiel through the mechanics of driving, giving him concise instructions.

 

After an hour of that, Castiel realized that Dean was speaking as much for his own sake as Castiel’s, trying to keep himself alert enough to drive. When Led Zeppelin’s _Stairway to Heaven_ ended, Dean ejected the tape and began searching radio stations, adding his own commentary along the way.

 

Dean responded to a snippet of bright, cheerful music with, “Bunch of pop shit. Don’t let Sammy tell you otherwise, Cas.” To the loud shouting of a man’s voice, Dean said, “Asshole. I swear, these guys only _think_ they know what started the apocalypse.”

 

He paused when he reached a channel featuring the calm voice of a woman. Castiel couldn’t understand why Dean would want to listen, and then he realized that she was listing cities where riots were occurring.

 

“We have no news on why insomnia is affecting everyone, but t no one seems to be immune from the problem.” She spoke without any sort of inflection that would indicate she had been affected, although her voice was a little hoarse. “Doctors are encouraging everyone to stay home and rest as much as possible. Even just closing your eyes for a few hours will have a positive effect.”

 

Dean shut the radio off with a violent twist of the dial. “Yeah, right.”

 

“It might be enough for some people,” Castiel replied.

 

Dean shook his head. “Maybe, but it’s not going to work for us.” His eyes shifted quickly, as though he was trying to catch a glimpse of something out of his peripheral vision. “I keep seeing things, Cas. If I can’t—if I start seeing things like I did before, you’re going to need to knock me out any way you can.”

 

“The last time I tried—” Castiel began.

 

“You got knocked on your ass,” Dean finished. “That’s not the sort of ‘knocking out’ I’m talking about. I mean physically, you just hit me as hard as you can, and you keep hitting me until I go down. That sort of thing.”

 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Castiel protested.

 

“I can’t sleep until we get back to Bobby’s, and I’m not leaving my baby,” Dean replied. “That means that you might have to get us back yourself. You hear?”

 

Castiel nodded reluctantly. “I hear you, Dean.”

 

“Good. Now, reach under your seat and pull out the box. We need to continue your musical education.”

 

From Led Zeppelin, to AC/DC, to Metallica—Castiel listened to the music, but he was more interested in what Dean had to say as he waxed poetic about various songs. Dean spoke, and Castiel listened, right up until Dean pulled over onto the shoulder with a sharp turn of the wheel, throwing the car into park.

 

“Dean, what—”

 

“Sam,” Dean muttered. “We have to get to Sam. This isn’t the way.”

 

“We have to go back to Bobby’s house,” Castiel replied, speaking slowly, as though to a child. “You can rest there.”

 

“No.” Dean looked over his shoulder to check for oncoming traffic, and Castiel realized with a start that Dean was about to turn around to go back the way they’d just come. “We have to go back. Sam is in Detroit.”

 

“No, Dean,” Castiel argued, feeling angry and desperate. “He’s at Bobby’s. We left him there so he wouldn’t be tempted to say yes.”

 

Dean snarled, and his hand went to the side holster where Castiel knew the Colt hung. He reacted without thinking, his fist contacting Dean’s temple with a thump that caused him to hiss in pain.

 

Castiel was grateful for the bench seats of the Impala that allowed him to get out and slide Dean across. Castiel knew that he wouldn’t have had the strength to carry Dean. He settled Dean in the passenger seat, and indulged the desire to caress Dean’s cheek—something he would not allow himself to do were Dean awake.

 

He climbed behind the wheel and pressed down on the brake, carefully shifting the car back into drive and pulling back out onto the highway. Castiel had only one goal in mind: getting Dean to Bobby’s.

 

As he drove, Castiel tried to focus on the road, but there was still a part of his mind that wandered. He thought it strange that although sleep remained an impossibility, unconsciousness was a different story. It didn’t help with the exhaustion, as Castiel could attest from his own half-day spent passed out after Zachariah tried to kill him, but if Dean was out, he at least wasn’t trying to drive. Or hallucinating that Sam had said yes to Lucifer.

 

Castiel had limited knowledge about how to drive. All he had were his observations, Dean’s brief instruction, and the swiftly fading memories leftover from Jimmy.

 

The wheels of the Impala ate up the miles, and the hours passed in silence. Castiel didn’t know that he was anymore able to drive at the moment than Dean was—he strongly suspected that this growing burden was his need for sleep. Normally, in a situation like this, Castiel would have asked Dean, would have tried to describe the way his limbs felt weighed down, as though made of a much heavier material than flesh and bone. He would have explained that he kept drifting off, his mind blank.

 

He had no words for the way his emotions bubbled up at random moments, or why he’d been forced to pull over to the side of the highway to rest his head against the steering wheel, his eyes stinging.

 

For a moment, Castiel gave serious consideration to giving up. He could do nothing until Dean woke up, hopefully in fit condition to take the wheel, and Dean would get them to Bobby’s. Or Castiel could transport himself somewhere else, and if he went far enough, he’d exhaust himself and would eventually die.

 

Castiel rolled his head to the side, his temple resting on the steering wheel, and he stared at Dean, still unconscious and leaning against the passenger window—and the sight gave him strength.

 

Dean had saved his life, he’d kept watch over Castiel, somehow managing to remain alert—and then he’d managed to give Castiel a crash course on driving. Castiel had no choice but to push through his weariness and despair for Dean.

 

Exhaustion blurred his vision and caused his hands to shake, but Castiel resolutely started the car and pulled back onto the interstate.

 

The road was empty; people had apparently decided that it wasn’t safe to be driving, something for which Castiel was thankful. Several times, Castiel caught himself drifting onto the shoulder, and once only the rough thrum of the rumble bars startled him awake enough to continue on.

 

He had never been so grateful to see the fence surrounding Singer’s Salvage Yard at the edge of Sioux Falls. Castiel knew he’d reached the end of his endurance, but the last thing he’d wanted was to fail Dean.

 

Castiel had failed too often as it was.

 

The wheels of the Impala crunched over gravel as he stopped the car, putting it into park as Dean had shown him, and turning the key until the engine shuddered and went silent. Castiel’s limbs felt as though they were made of lead, and he glanced over at Dean’s still-inert form.

 

He didn’t think he could move, and his eyes stung with abject exhaustion.

 

Castiel heard footsteps crunch over the yard, and Sam appeared next to the passenger side. Sam looked better—his eyes were no longer bloodshot and sunken, and he moved quickly and efficiently. “What happened, Cas?” Sam demanded. He frowned as he opened the passenger door carefully, trying not to disturb Dean.

 

“He was hallucinating, and would have returned to Detroit,” Castiel explained. His voice sounded strange to his ears, the words slurring together. “I had to knock him out.”

 

Sam stared at Castiel for a moment before pulling Dean from the passenger seat. “Hey, are you okay?”

 

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never—this is new.”

 

“Just sit tight,” Sam ordered. “I’m going to get Dean inside, and then I’ll come back for you.”

 

Castiel thought that Sam wasn’t telling him everything; there was something in Sam’s voice that told him that there was another problem. He remained where he was as Sam carried Dean into the house, but he couldn’t remain behind. Castiel had remained with Dean this far; he would see it through to the end.

 

The walk from the Impala to the front steps was painful; all he could think about was putting one foot in front of the other. When he reached the front door, the air seemed to have thickened, but he pushed through as he’d been pushing for days.

 

“Cas, what—” Sam stopped, frowning. “How did you get inside?”

 

“I walked inside,” Castiel replied, not understanding the question.

 

Sam’s eyes went soft with something Castiel recognized as pity. “We warded the house against angels, Cas. That’s why we’ve been able to sleep. When we figured out what was going on, we did the whole house.”

 

Castiel swallowed, then shook his head, his emotions roiling. He was no longer able to distinguish them; they seemed to have knotted up in his chest. His shoulders slumped, but he managed to meet Sam’s eyes. “It’s okay.”

 

He was proud of the way his voice remained steady, and Sam put a large hand on his shoulder. “Come on. You need to sleep.”

 

“I want—I need to see Dean,” Castiel replied stubbornly, enunciating as clearly as he could.

 

Sam smiled. “Well, you’re in luck, since Dean’s already on the double bed upstairs. You can share with him.”

 

Castiel allowed himself to be led up the stairs, into a bedroom. Dean already slept on one side of a large bed, and Sam helped Castiel remove his shoes, his tie, his coat., because Castiel’s fingers had gone thick and clumsy. “You’ll be more comfortable this way,” Sam explained gently. “Just sleep as long as you can.”

 

When Sam released him, Castiel curled up next to Dean, close enough to feel his warmth. “I don’t know how to sleep,” Castiel confessed softly.

 

“Close your eyes,” Sam advised. “Let your body do the rest.”

 

Castiel allowed his eyes to drift close, and he felt the warm drape of a blanket as Sam spread it out over both him and Dean.

 

And then Castiel slept.


End file.
